


Ornamental

by SoulfireInc



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Ambush, BAMF Malcolm Bright, BTHB, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Gen, I only mildly traumatise her in this one don't @ me, Malcolm Bright Whump, Malcolm Bright is a Badass, Malcolm's FBI training, Malcolm's weapons collection is not just for show, SUNSHINE IS FINE OKAY SHE'S FINE, Tom Payne gave me the idea for this, Whump, looks like we're getting it in s2 so yay everyone, this is basically a giant fight scene because we all know our boy and TP are up to it, tnx bb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28658895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulfireInc/pseuds/SoulfireInc
Summary: Malcolm comes home to an uninvited visitor and has a chance to show him his weapons collection.Bad Things Happen Bingo: Ambush
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel, Malcolm Bright & Sunshine the Bird
Comments: 10
Kudos: 79





	Ornamental

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts).



> I started writing this in June. JUNE! Welp, here, have some whumpy badass Malcolm because Jameena is a wonderful enabler <3

Malcolm grasped the back of his neck hard, wishing it were Gil. It didn’t have the same calming effect when he could feel his hand tremoring and right now he needed calm. He needed the tempest in his head to still because he was _missing something._

Shouldering the door to his building open he traipsed up the stairs, still holding his neck. He wasn’t convinced Dani’s spilling coffee on his shirt hadn’t been intentional since he’d ignored Gil’s repeated suggestions (okay, _orders_ ) to go home and rest. They probably hoped he’d be lured into a nap while changing his suit which, really, was just disheartening because it proved how little they knew him, even after all these months. He wasn’t going to be distracted by _sleep_ now, not with a trio of high-profile homicides still to be solved.

He almost had it, he could _feel_ it. But there was something off. Something obvious he hadn’t registered. But he was close. _Tantalisingly_ close. Too close to waste an hour changing a damn suit that could’ve waited if his team weren’t so damn good at high school-level peer pressure.

He raised his keys, grimacing slightly as the jangling aggravated his headache. In fairness to Gil, he might be in need of a snack. And some water.

Sunshine was singing before he’d even stepped inside but his automatic smile froze. That wasn’t her usual melody. Her tone was higher than normal, the notes faster, more staccato. A warning. His hand tightened around the keys still in the lock, one foot landing in the loft, already shifting into a readier stance. The keys scraped discordantly as he dragged them free, eyes hunting through the apartment while the voice in his head that sounded like Gil growled at him to retreat and call someone.

He never got the chance.

A flicker of movement drew his eye in time to see the black-clad mass a second before it hit him, barrelling him into the open door, nearly breaking it off its hinges. His head snapped into it and he lost a second, but his body was already reacting, pivoting to meet the attack, pulling the keys free and driving them into the exposed back. The man barely flinched, instead digging his shoulder into Malcolm’s stomach and flipping him over his back and away from the door to crash onto the floor, winded and dazed.

Malcolm sucked in a ragged breath that wheezed and scored along his throat. The pressure on his stomach shifted to his chest as the man sat up, pinning him with an unreasonably pointy elbow. Malcolm squirmed, trying to work his hands free, but one was trapped by the man’s leg. He heaved the other up to grip the arm crushing his sternum just as his attacker drew a flash of steel into his line of sight. Malcolm’s eyes widened, his attention utterly diverted from the elbow slipping towards his throat to the long, gently curving dagger that was far too beautiful for the terror coursing through him. It caught the recessed lights of his loft as the attacker drove it into his side and it was hours’ worth of training memory into exhausted muscles and pure luck that guided Malcolm’s hand to the man’s wrist before the gleaming blade could rip into him.

A moment of three gasped breaths. Malcolm glanced into the man’s eyes, the only part of him he could see past the black mask pulled high on his nose. His skin was pale. One eye was blue, the other undecided between hazel and green.

_Heterochromia_ , Malcolm noted idly. _That’s rare._

The moment broke with a grunt as Blue-Green Eyes yanked his weapon hand free, leaning back, withdrawing his other arm from Malcolm’s collarbone to switch hands, probably so as to stab him on his pinned, defenceless side.

Luckily for Malcolm, adrenaline was a truly fantastic stimulant. All weariness pushed far enough away to be momentarily forgotten, he seized the moment of distraction and bucked his hips, upsetting Blue-Green and rocking him forward to meet Malcolm’s ready fist in his throat. Blue-Green choked, curled in on himself, and recoiled, but held onto the knife. Malcolm jerked sideways, pushing off the floor hard, and heaved Blue-Green off him. He rolled away quickly, but Blue-Green recovered impossibly fast – professionally fast.

The knife was already glinting through the air. It tugged through Malcolm’s coat, the angle and less-than-ideal traction of his dress shoes combining to drag him back down to the floor. Blue-Green dragged the knife through Malcolm’s coat – if he survived this his mother was going to _kill_ him, this coat had been a _very_ expensive birthday present – and grabbed a fistful. He tugged it back and Malcolm toppled, crying out, drowning out Sunshine’s anxious twittering, and Blue-Green’s arm was around his throat again in moments, his back now pinned against the assassin’s chest.

Malcolm managed one desperate gasp before the arm cut off his air and he knew the knife wouldn’t be far behind. Not thinking, he threw both arms back, grabbing Blue-Green’s head and _rolled,_ pulling them both sideways, over the arm Blue-Green had wrapped around Malcolm’s throat. He was rewarded with fresh air and the clatter of the knife. He spun away and whirled to his feet, clawing out of his coat as he rose to his full height. Sunshine tweeted encouragingly from her cage and he allowed himself a small smile. Pity she couldn’t be able to tell JT and Dani about this. He wasn’t sure they really believed he’d been in the FBI.

Blue-Green snatched up the blade and leapt nimbly to his feet. Malcolm threw his balled-up coat at him. He batted it away, snarling.

“Don’t you have a message for me?” Malcolm panted, carefully circling past Sunshine’s cage, towards the couch.

Blue-Green didn’t respond.

“Nothing? No warning, no snarky comments?”

Blue-Green stepped fluidly aside, matching Malcolm’s measured pace. He didn’t twirl the blade, there was no unnecessary display of skill or dexterity. Every movement was purely efficient. Calculated.

“Conversations with dead men bore me.”

Malcolm laughed. “Really? I find them _fascinating._ So much to learn! Like who sent you? I’m guessing this is about the Olefson case? I must be getting close if someone’s trying to silence me.”

Blue-Green chuckled, low and controlled and humourless.

“Predictable. As I said, Corpse. Boring.”

Malcolm never took his eyes off Blue-Green’s, and yet there was no warning. No tell-tale flicker of intent, no shift in weight, no subtle angling of a foot. He was simply stationary one moment and attacking the next. So fast Malcolm lost the movement connecting them.

Definitely professional. _Expensive_ professional.

Malcolm’s phone whizzed through the air, stolen from his coat pocket and spinning towards his face with enough force to bruise his parrying arm and force him to stumble back, his hip knocking into the couch and disrupting his balance. Before he could lower his arm Blue-Green was upon him, blade a dim grey blur. Malcolm spun, heart leaping for cover in his throat. He pushed himself backwards, over the arm of the couch, bringing his knees up and lashing out with his heels to make solid contact with Blue-Green’s chest just as the knife flashed forwards, past Malcolm’s thigh. It cartwheeled out of Blue-Green’s hand and licked savagely along Malcolm’s side, slicing through jacket, shirt, and skin before burying itself, quivering, in the couch cushion. Malcolm bit back his groan and followed the momentum of his kick, rolling backwards off the couch, wincing inwardly as his ribs grated against the blade, until he was back on slightly less steady feet, the couch now standing between him and his attacker.

Blue-Green’s eyes held a new animosity now. Malcolm had half a heartbeat to register burgeoning fury test cool control before Blue-Green leaped on the couch, powering towards him with all the power of a subway train. Malcolm darted sideways, making for his weapons display, needing _something,_ anything with which to end this, _quickly_ , knowing he had no chance beating this man in hand-to-hand combat, even despite his comprehensive training. He was running on adrenaline and coffee, sustained by yoga and light exercise whereas Blue-Green was in peak, rested condition, not months from optimal fighting fitness. If Malcolm didn’t end this _now,_ then he would be the one ending.

And he really didn’t like the idea of killing his mother.

The desk was in his way so he vaulted it, landing with a slip – damn these shoes! – and skidded to the rightmost case. He just had time to mentally kick himself over his own idiocy – the key was in his desk drawer – when Blue-Green negated that worry for him by barrelling into him and forcing Malcolm _through_ the toughened glass of the display, one hand wrapping around the back of his head to ensure it shattered the window first.

The cacophony tinkled down around him, drowning the pain of searing cuts on his face, shoulders, chest, of previously docile ornaments biting greedily into his flesh as Blue-Green’s weight pushed him onto his collection. The world winked away for a long moment that stole the strength from his muscles. When it returned it was oddly muted, buffering like country data, soaked in cotton and stuffed into his skull, reverberating like the echoes of a struck gong he didn’t remember hearing.

If not for the fingers still squeezing his skull possessively, Malcolm would have collapsed. The hand pulled back and air he didn’t known he lacked found its way to soothe aching lungs. Malcolm caught a glimpse of his twin throwing axes, the vintage birch-handled hunting knife between them smeared with dark blood. A small, calm part of him noted he’d have to clean that. He didn’t want the steel to tarnish.

Before the world could piece itself back together the hand shoved him forward again, the hunting knife racing toward him with more speed than he could comprehend. He felt the impact, but only distantly, the bite of a cut above his temple drawing more stunned attention. That same, small voice wondered if Blue-Green would bring in professional cleaners to cover up their fight. A tiny flare of pride chased the thought. Gil would still know. And Edrisa would still find everything.

The pride swelled, mutating into something fiercer, more protective. He would not allow Edrisa to examine his corpse. He would not force Gil to investigate his murder. He would not leave his death as a case for his team to solve.

He would not die so easily as this.

The hand pulled him back again and Malcolm wrenched the world back into something he could comprehend. He found his limp arms and commanded them to rise. They obeyed, clumsily, but he was his mother’s son and stubbornness ran in every platelet of his blood and by the time his hands reached his axe and katana they were steady, sure.

He smiled.

The katana grated delicately as Blue-Green pulled them both back from the case, the sound far more beautiful for the hope they heralded. Malcolm spun, tucking his axe-wielding arm in close as he did, blade out. He misjudged the distance and Blue-Green leapt nimbly backwards, bloodless. Malcolm completed his turn, leaning accidentally on the display doors as the world veered momentarily off its axis. He adjusted his grip on his weapons and straightened, shaking his head to clear the last of the fog. It receded to the edges of his mind, lying in wait at the perimeter of his skull. But it was enough. Both hilts, asymmetrical but individually balanced to perfection, fit like prosthetics to his hands, like custom extensions to his body.

There was no one else to defend. No one to talk down. No potential for collateral damage. Just him and the man who had broken into his home to end his life.

Blue-Green was _his._

The professional’s eyes wrinkled in obvious disdain.

“You think you can beat me with decorations, Corpse?”

Malcolm spat blood and grinned, tasting the copper tang on his teeth.

“They’re not ornamental.”

With one inhale Malcolm banished his fatigue, his pain, his fear. With the exhale he stepped forward into a version of himself so long lain dormant he had doubted it still lived, yet before his weight had shifted he knew that hard-won strength was still his. Every muscle was his to command, every iota of his concentration focused on his three weapons: the axe, the katana, his body. Three distinct elements, moving as one with perfect fluidity, with savage ferocity, with stringent economy. Each move flowed into the next, conserving all momentum, all energy, a flurry of attacks that would have overwhelmed a normal adversary in moments.

Blue-Green retreated, dodging with impossible skill and speed, snatching Malcolm’s lamp from his desk as an impromptu shield. Malcolm ripped shards of blood into the air, forcing Blue-Green back, his mind calmer than it had been in months as katana and axe flashed silver and red before his eyes. Blue-Green threw the lamp and Malcolm ducked, his rhythm lost long enough for Blue-Green to maneuver behind him, toward the broken weapons display. Blue-Green bent, reaching for shuriken and throwing daggers. Malcolm stepped forward, his arm moving calmly through the air to send the axe sailing gracefully to _thwack_ resolutely into the textured red casing – through Blue-Green’s hand.

Blue-Green grunted, the sound twisting into a low, guttural groan. Malcolm paced forward, katana raised to demand surrender.

But Blue-Green was a professional. Undoubtedly trained to weather such pains as crushed bones and arterial bleeds. He simply reached for the axe head with a hand already laden with Malcolm’s shuriken and yanked it free without a sound, straightened, and threw it at Malcolm with such force it became a blood-flinging Catherine wheel. He didn’t have time to duck but merely leaned sideways, the cool breeze ghosting past his nose whispering how closely he came to finally facing his father’s victims. The axe spun on to strike Sunshine’s cage with enough force to knock it from its hook, toppling it to the ground with a resounding clatter. Sunshine shrieked, wings blurring in her haste to right herself inside the cage as it rolled behind the kitchen island.

Malcolm turned back to Blue-Green with crimson vision. He gripped the katana tighter, the softly gleaming tip bucking like a horse pulling on reigns, eager to break from the gate.

“Do _not_ touch my bird,” he said, voice low and deadly, each syllable dripping with a promise to draw blood.

Blue-Green stood to his full height, his injured hand already gripping the curved, three-pointed Cyclone throwing star. He whipped it into the air but Malcolm was already moving, striding forward with the confidence and calm ferocity of the protector. The katana moved sinuously, almost of its own accord, to meet the shuriken, the collision a shrill _clang_ and a concentrated firework before the throwing star glanced off into irrelevance. The three five-pointed shuriken whizzed at him in dizzying succession but he ducked and wove around them, his katana now a shield, each impact jarring through wrist and elbow and shoulder, pain echoing through his body at a frequency he had all but tuned out. Blue-Green turned back to the display, fumbling more weapons free from their stands, his actions less confident now, hurried, verging into fearful.

Malcolm spared no satisfaction. Sunshine was still trilling hysterically behind him.

Blue-Green turned, unleashing the dual swords, but it was too late. Malcolm’s knee drove into his side as he pivoted, the katana spinning in his palm to ram the hilt into the man’s temple, stunning him then, in the same movement, twirling it back to slap the flat of the blade hard on Blue-Green’s hands with enough force to undo his dazed hold. The swords clattered gracelessly to the ground. Malcolm grabbed his shoulder with his other hand and shoved, forcing his back into the display case and unbalancing him. In less than a breath, the katana was wedged delicately against the black mask concealing his neck.

“You shouldn’t have hurt my bird,” Malcolm growled, leaning close enough to see the dichromatic eyes widen in nearly concealed fear. In a blink, it was replaced with contempt.

“They didn’t have combat training in your file,” Blue-Green said, the words weighted with grudging respect.

Malcolm jerked his chin. “I’m ex-FBI. They don’t exactly teach yoga at Quantico.”

Blue-Green snorted. “So you gonna kill me, Fed? Better make it fast,” he sneered. “I don’t stay down long.”

“You have answers I need.”

Blue-Green grunted a laugh and Malcolm shoved him harder against the ruined case, hoping the hunting dagger was cutting through his layers of cloth and body armour.

“Better kill me then. Save yourself the embarrassment. I don’t talk.”

Malcolm scoffed softly. “You will.”

He jerked his elbow sharply into Blue-Green’s temple and the man crumpled, unconscious. Malcolm watched him for the span of two deep breaths, then reached over his head and returned the katana to its perch. He grabbed Blue-Green’s collar and dragged him across the loft, gritting his teeth as adrenaline’s silencing effect on his many cuts and bruises abruptly tapered off. With a grunt he heaved the would-be assassin into his bead and used his restraints to bind him, tightening them beyond their usual loop and digging pins from his dresser. He inserted them into the quick-releases, disabling them. Satisfied, he turned back to his loft. He had many reasons to be grateful for his wealth but the fact that he wouldn’t have to clean all this up was absolutely one of them.

But that would wait.

He bent down and righted Sunshine’s cage. Murmuring softly to her, he opened the hatch and extended a hand. She ignored it, shooting out the wire door in a yellow-green blur, hooting and tweeting indignantly. He left her to it, still keeping up a steady, soothing melody of speech as he cleaned her cage and returned it to its hook, complete with fresh water and extra treats.

The fog stalking the edges of his mind was curling menacingly, as though waiting for an opening to flood back over his awareness and drown him. The gash along his side was shallow but still bleeding freely, as were the many other souvenirs of his uninvited visitor. With herculean effort, he fished his phone out of the mess and called Gil, then, once the lecture was over, he poured a glass of scotch and collapsed on the couch.

The gash left by Blue-Green’s knife really ruined the sofa’s patina. It would probably be expensive to mend. His mother would undoubtedly yell at him for it.

He flipped the cushion.

Sunshine fluttered onto his wrist, hooting softly in a tone that suggested grudging forgiveness.

“Hey Sunshine,” he mumbled, raising his least bloody finger to stroke her. “You okay, birdy?”

She chirped, encouragingly, he thought.

“I’ll take you to Amanda tomorrow to be sure, okay?”

Chirp.

“Glad you’re okay, pretty girl.” Were his words slurring? That wasn’t a good sign. Maybe the fog was closer than he’d realised.

Sunshine flapped to his shoulder and nuzzled into his less gruesome cheek, hooting softly. She was shaking. He leaned gently into her fluffy affection, letting his eyes drift shut and silencing the warning voice in his mind with the knowledge that Gil would be here with JT and Dani in mere minutes.

He hummed Sunshine’s favourite song until her little body stopped trembling, the small ball of warmth settling the last of the fear careening through his bloodstream.

“We’re okay, little thing,” he murmured. “We’ll be okay.”

Sunshine chirruped softly, as though agreeing.


End file.
